Regret
by riters-Bloq
Summary: He found answers for a living, yet he couldn't find an answer to save his own son. Just something that came to me, thinking about Walter and Peter's relationship. Oneshot. Enjoy! Previously titled "Reassurance" but didn't like, so KA-POW. New title.


_A/N: _Nope, I don't own _Fringe_, even though I want to. No infringement intended, and I would love to read any feedback you have. (I just made cookies...I'll give you one!) This is all kinds of un-proofed. All mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoy!

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It was the coldest day of the year so far, a perfect day for a funeral if there was such a thing. The heater in the small church had gone out the night before, making the entire sanctuary feel even more…_dead_ than it already did. The minister's breath came in short puffs as he shivered his way through the sermon. Walter took his eyes off of the casket in front of the altar just long enough to glance at a few of the attendants in the pews around him. Some were huddled together for warmth, others blowing warm breath into cupped hands. All of them seemed preoccupied with the cold weather.

All except the woman seated next to him who stared straight ahead, looking at nothing in particular. Her eyes were terribly red and swollen from days of inconsolable sobs, and the dark circles beneath them told the tale of many sleepless nights before now. He hesitated for a moment before gently covering her frail-looking hand with his own. As he expected, she drew it away. His eyes shifted back to the casket before him and he bowed his head as the minister began the prayer.

****

The graveside service was mercifully short, though most of the parishioners had decided not to brave the cold anymore and left after the sermon. Though Walter hadn't been a religious man in many years, the recitation of the Twenty-Third Psalm somehow comforted him, and he was grateful that his wife had insisted upon the religious service. She hadn't looked at him on the ride over from the church; He hadn't expected her to, either. She blamed him and he knew it. A part of him blamed himself, too. As the final prayer was said and the roses were laid on the small white casket, his wife had broken down in violent, heaving sobs and was escorted by one of her church friends back to the car so she wouldn't have to watch the burial.

As the bagpipes played their haunting rendition of "Amazing Grace" Walter noticed that the last of the visitors were leaving. Belly trudged up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, embracing him warmly and stating very plainly that "No one wants to see a child buried at Christmas" before he also disappeared to his car. Walter didn't mind, really. He had wanted a moment alone before the small coffin was put in the ground, and now he had it.

Though the snow was beginning to fall harder and the wind was beginning to blow even more of an icy chill across his reddened face, he made no effort to move. He suspended his hands hesitantly above the casket for a moment before taking off his leather gloves and thrusting them deep into his coat pockets and laying his hands gingerly on the coffin that now contained the body of his only son. He ran his hands over the polished white wood, his mind now beginning to come to terms with the finality of it all. The tears stung like needles as they poured from his eyes, threatening to freeze on his cheeks from the bitter cold. The bitter feeling of failure washed over him as he continued stroking the casket so lovingly, as only a father could.

He had failed. He found answers for a living, specialized in it, even—and yet he couldn't find an answer that would save his own flesh and blood. Now, it was too late. All the promises of a cure he had made to his young son had gone unfulfilled, rendering him not only helpless, but hopeless as well. He hadn't been aware of his numbed fingers fumbling with the casket lock until he was the midst of opening it a final time. He knew what he was doing was nothing short of insane—science and common sense both proved that it was useless. But he felt compelled. He had to apologize.

The sight took him aback like a swift kick to the gut. The still, lifeless shell of a boy who had suffered much too long with illness was almost too much for him to bear. Walter's mind reeled and as he laid a hand gently on the boy's chest he was hit with every emotion he had stifled for the past year. "Oh, Peter…No…" he sobbed, stroking the boy's crimson red sweater vest. "I'm so sorry little one...I tried…I'm so sorry…" He paused, catching his breath and placing a kiss on the child's forehead that was once hot with fever. "Please forgive me…"

"It's okay Walter…" The boy replied, though his mouth never moved. "It's okay…"

Walter looked around in shock, looking for the source of the voice as suddenly the world around him became fuzzier and darker until it was gone.

****

In the darkness of the Boston hotel room, Peter Bishop cradled his father's head and stroked the elder man's hands as he cried out in the night. "It's okay Walter…" He whispered calmly as he rocked back and forth uneasily on the bed. "It's okay…I'm right here." This was the third night in a row that this had happened, though he didn't understand why. Walter's cries softened and his eyes began to flutter open, and he smiled at Peter with the same sleepily relieved smile he had given him for the past three nights as he squeezed his son's hands gently.

"Peter…" He whispered, sounding exhausted though he had just emerged from sleep. "I'm so glad you're here…."

Peter returned the smile somewhat wearily and tucked the comforter tighter around his father as he got up from the bed and returned to the living room.

"I'm always here, Walter. You know that."

Walter said nothing in reply as he turned over to face the window, the red and green Christmas lights hanging from a neighboring balcony the last thing he saw before he drifted back to sleep.

****


End file.
